


Mirror

by neveralarch



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A party in honor of the Prince's return from the Bazhir and the bosom (so to speak) of Thom's own sister, the Lady Knight Alanna? Thom wouldn't miss it for the world.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after the end of The Woman Who Rides Like a Man. Jonathan/Alanna and Jonathan/Josiane are both discussed in this fic, but don't actually spend much time on-screen, just so you know. Also, the sex in this fic is consensual but kind of messed up - let me know if you need details for your own self-care.

Prince Jonathan's eyes find Thom in amongst the young lords at Court. Thom's not surprised, for all that the Prince should be giving his attention to the lovely Princess Josiane. She's the one in Jonathan's arms, after all, the one hanging on to his shoulders. Thom is leaning against a far wall, with a quiet group of men and women who hold no interest in dancing or drawing attention to themselves. But Prince Jonathan finds Thom all the same, and he does look surprised, his eyebrows rising briefly. Perhaps he didn't expect to see the reclusive Lord Trebond in the ballroom. Thom is rarely in attendance at the numerous Court festivities, but this is a special occasion. A party in honor of the Prince's return from the Bazhir and the bosom (so to speak) of Thom's own sister, the Lady Knight Alanna? Thom wouldn't miss it for the world.

Jonathan is staring. Feeling that at least one of them should be decorous, Thom returns to his conversation with Duke Baird. The man's distrust hasn't turned to dislike yet (though it will, it always does), and Thom may yet learn something from him.

The dance reclaims Jon's attention, and he spins away from Lord Thom, exchanging courtesies and compliments with Princess Josiane. When he looks back, Duke Baird is laughing at Myles' joke, and Thom is nowhere to be seen.

Damn the twins of Trebond - damn Alanna, and Thom by association. Josiane makes a cutting remark about some noble's dress, and Jon laughs. Alanna would never laugh at that, but Josiane gives Jon a smile that is practiced and gentle and all the things Alanna was not. Jon won't bother looking for Thom, not when there are better things, prettier things to look to.

Josiane makes another harsh comment, eyes darting at Jon to see if he is amused, and Jon's own laugh grates on his nerves.

\---

The end of the party sees Jonathan wandering through unfamiliar corridors. No area of the palace is truly strange to Jon, not entirely, but these are the wings where visiting nobles make their homes, and Jon is little accustomed to calling on the country gentry that come to Court. They are more likely to attend on him.

Jon shakes his head, his thoughts swimming. He has drunk too much this night. It is one of many mistakes he has made, and this one is as irreparable as the others. He must push forward.

These halls may be foreign, the names on the doorplates strange, but Jon's footpath is certain. He may not make many visits, but he knows the location of one residence in particular. 

Lord Thom himself opens the door at Jon's knock. He keeps no servants – he'd rather care for himself than risk the disturbance of his magical experiments. He smirks at Jon, and Jon feels sick.

“Your Highness,” says Thom. Prince Jonathan looks unhappy about being here, though he brought himself. Thom lets his smile broaden. “Do come in.”

Jon steps inside. Lord Thom's quarters are, as always, a mess. “You look,” Jon says, and then find he cannot finish. “Well,” he forces out. “You look well.”

Thom is quite aware of how he looks, as he moves papers to free a chair for the Prince. He's spent Jonathan's absence on growing his hair, among other things, and now loose copper waves brush his shoulders as he bends. He'll cut it tomorrow, its purpose met. He's changed from Court clothes into soft breeches and a billowing peasant's shirt that is large enough to conceal the breasts he doesn't have. He looks up at Jonathan, purple eyes made larger and lips made fuller by the facepaint he bought for a 'lady friend.' The twins of Trebond share a weakness for disguise, especially when it produces such results – Jonathan's hands are shaking, and his mouth is a harsh, thin line.

“Take a seat, your Highness,” says Thom, and Jon masters himself long enough to sit. He has left Alanna behind him, he has _left_ Alanna-

“And how fares my sister?” asks Thom, twisting the knife, and Jon acts without thought. It is not much of a reach to grab Thom by that maddeningly red hair; he is short, like his sister. Nor does it take much force to pull Thom down to his knees; he is not strong, unlike his sister, his time given over to work with the pen and the mind, rather than the body. For his part, Thom does little to resist, though he squeals and flails and does not go down gracefully. He's well pleased by this development. He'd thought it might take much longer to goad Jonathan to such actions.

Thom pushes his head back against Jonathan's hand, until he can look him in the face. Jon looks away, feeling nauseous again. Nothing mortal should have eyes of that hue.

“So my sister refused you,” says Thom. “At last.”

“How could you know that?” Jon has told no one, and there has been no time for a letter to travel from the desert ahead of him. His drink-addled mind swims with thoughts of twins communing by the power of their gift, or, worse, of Myles deducing the outcome of Jon's proposal and informing Thom.

“It's obvious.” Thom's long lashes flutter as he looks down, and then back up at Jon, smirking again. “And there could be no other outcome.”

Jon's mind flashes blank. Thom is still speaking, but Jon renews his grip on Thom's hair and shakes him until his words are lost in shrieks.

Jon has all the power here, but he feels as if he's being played with. It makes him more reckless, as idiotic as that is, and Thom gives him a glance that is _all_ Alanna, down to the curls brushing across her, _no_ , _his_ face.

Thom can see Jonathan wavering, and he places a hand on the bulge in Jonathan's hose to help him along. Jonathan's fist tightens in Thom's hair, a nice spark of the hot pain that Thom has learned to think of as pleasure, but nothing else happens. Push again, then, and again, if he must. “Can you think of a better way to shut me up, your Highness?” he asks.

Jonathan's eyes grow darker, his mind further away. “Call me Jon,” he orders.

“Jon, then,” says Thom. He rolls his eyes, but Jonathan is too far gone to see it. If he did, it would only serve to anger Jonathan further – not exactly against Thom's purpose anyway.

Now, however, Jonathan loosens the ties on his codpiece. This, Thom knows how to do. The Mithran priests habitually turn their backs on the amusements boys find with each other, and young Thom of Trebond – playing a simpleton, but a very pretty one – was not immune to other boys' advances.

Prince Jonathan's cock is heavy in Thom's mouth, and he considers asking if Alanna has ever done this for her ex-lover. But no; it is a step too far, and anyway Thom doesn't really want to know the answer. He will do deplorable things for his own amusement, he is doing them now, but he will not do deplorable things for their own sake. He is not so far gone as of yet.

Jon thrusts once, twice, and he can imagine it is Alanna with him, her strong hands tight on his thighs, her understanding eyes fixed on his face, and he spills himself with Alanna's name on his lips. But it is Thom's harsh laughter that greets him, and Jon shoves him away, disgusted. Bile rises in his throat, and he feels neither satisfied nor content.

“Why did you say that you knew Alanna would reject me?” asks Jon. He sound plaintive, weak – another mistake to add to tonight's accounting.

Thom smirks up at him as Jonathan stands, adjusting his codpiece. “Look at you, Jon,” he says. “You're beneath my sister.”

“I am the heir,” snaps Jon. “And you will address me with the respect befitting your position.”

“Heir you may be,” says Thom, “but Alanna is the Lady Knight, favored of the Goddess. And I am the greatest sorcerer of this age. You are beneath me as well.” Jonathan is standing over Thom, still sprawled on the ground, and Thom is well aware of the irony. Perhaps it's occurred to Jonathan as well. Perhaps that's why his face is so blank.

“Who are you, amongst such legends?” asks Thom, eyes dancing, and Jon wants, very badly, to prove him wrong. He is Jonathan Conte, heir to the Tortallan throne and Voice of the Tribes. But Thom would only mock him further. Any man that would declare himself the greatest sorcerer of his time without a trace of modesty will not be impressed by Jon's own deeds.

Jon would like to strike Thom, to watch his eyes dim and then go bright with fury, to watch heat smear across his cheeks. But sober clarity is invading his mind, and enough mistakes have been made tonight. He steps away from Thom, out into the corridors, swears to himself to never come again.

Thom watches him go. “Lucky for you that you're so good at fucking,” he says to the closed door. He sticks his hand down his breeches – Jonathan has left him in some distress, but that's easily mended. This isn't the first time Jonathan has gone with Thom's cock still hard and neglected, and it will surely not be the last. Thom's head falls back, his eyes sliding shut as he touches himself. If he pushes a little harder, Jon may strike him next time. Thom can nearly taste the bruises, and he jerks and comes to imagined fingers on his throat.

Thom wipes his hand on his breeches and sighs. Playtime is over, and now he must bathe, cut his hair, and continue the research that will reveal his true power at last.

He looks at the mirror as he stands, purses his lips and cocks his head. The resemblance really is quite remarkable, smudged facepaint aside.

“All my love,” he says to the Alanna in the mirror. “You were right to tell him no.”


End file.
